The Parttime Peluda and the Fainthearted Fiancé
by Ineffabilitea
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley find a mutually satisfying way to solve the other's immediate problem. A Fractured Folk Tale.


Once upon a time, there was a sleepy little village in the south of a land that would someday be called France. The village stretched out along the banks of a rocky, tumbling stream which merited its ambitious appellation of 'river' only at the height of the rainy season.

So, 'river' was a bit of a stretch, but as long as we're being frank, so was 'village'; it was more of a campsite which had become more or less permanent, actually, with huts that were, strictly speaking, lean-tos, and its small population had never really taken to farming and preferred to raise goats. Scratch that – they didn't so much prefer to raise goats as much as they had defaulted to raising goats as the least onerous option.

Perhaps the setting for our folktale is not off to a promising start, but consider this: once upon a time, it isn't yet the rainy season, but for reasons that will be elucidated shortly, it's raining harder than it ever has before, so the river, for the moment, really is a river. And a visitor is currently settling into a cave in the hills above the village whose presence will make it anything but sleepy.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a flood. Now, the flood I trust you've heard of. Yes, The Flood. The one that's in The Bible. Noah's flood. The one that (supposedly) covered the face of the earth for more than forty days and forty nights? Good, you _have_ heard of it.

So it had started with the flood, or, to be precise, with the preparations for the flood. And, of course, with that blessed angel.

When Crowley had heard (from, it must be acknowledged, that very same blessed angel) of Above's plans for a cataclysm which would wreak worldwide destruction, leaving a clean slate for the re-creation of the human race, his first urge had been to congratulate himself on a bad job well done. Maybe it wasn't quite all down to him that people had turned out to be as petty, spiteful, malicious and downright nasty as they had (in fact, he sometimes suspected it was mostly down to people themselves, with his influence being merely a beckoning finger in the direction they were already sauntering), but he was Below's main man – main demon – here on the Earth, and so he could take credit for the millions of deaths that were soon to ensue.

Crowley's second impulse was to get extraordinarily drunk, but then he realized he already was, and so was the blessed angel, and that was how he had found out this good– bad– _ohbuggerit_ – news in the first place.

Wine might've loosened the angel's tongue on that occasion, but no amount of it was ultimately capable of persuading him to look the other way while Crowley snuck onto the ark that was apparently the human race's one foolhardy – _someone _might say 'ineffable' – hope, and it was thus that the demon had found himself winging his way over the rising flood waters towards the ends of the earth.

His plan – plan B, as it would be called once the Romans came into existence and developed the Roman alphabet – was to find some place out of the way to ride out this flood with as much comfort as possible. He would find someplace, he was sure. The angel might've said worldwide, but who said he was really in the know? A worldwide flood would be a waste of effort, Crowley reasoned, when all of the people that really mattered, it seemed, good, bad, or otherwise, were concentrated in one place.

And he'd come through seemingly impossible scenarios before, hadn't he? He'd pulled off the Tree incident, back in the garden, without being scorched by the divine wrath or even singed or lightly toasted. He saw no reason why his lucky streak wouldn't continue to hold.

And as it turned out, his basic luck was intact. As always, though, the devil was in the details. Crowley did find a place to shelter from The Flood - a rather chilly cave in an isolated Western backwater of the barbaric region known as Europe. The whole place reeked of goats – _wet_ goats, the only furnishings he could find for his new abode were crudely made and as unstylish as could possibly be imagined, no one in the someoneforsaken village nearby had even heard of beer, let alone wine, and there was absolutely no entertainment to be had.

Crowley was bored to tears. And it was out of this need for distraction that a cunning plan was born.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a horrendous monster that struck terror into the hearts of villagers for miles around. The monster was serpentine in form, but with hundreds of bristling, poison-tipped quills. It was also a rather lurid shade of green.

Of course, the monster wasn't serpentine, or bristling, or green right at this very moment. He preferred to assume that form as little as possible, because he was always afraid he'd forget how to change back. And the green, on second thought, was really rather tacky. Black would've been much sleeker.

It was certainly effective at terrorizing the humans in this backstretch of nowhere, though, Crowley reflected. It helped that they weren't particularly bright, on the whole.

It was the exceptions that his plan was aimed at.

Crowley knew there was no need for him to stay in the region forever, but it was prudent to linger for a while after The Flood, far from the angel and whatever other heavenly influences would be acting upon the newly cleansed world. And as long as he was here, and there were people to tempt, he felt he had an obligation to do his job. And if there were certain benefits for him, such as the fact that the outcome of all his tempting would be to make the south of France more to his liking, well, that was merely incidental.

So every so often, Crowley would head down to the village as himself and stir up discontent, mostly among the young. It certainly didn't require a master of wiles to point out a few of the village's many glaring flaws, or to suggest that life might be easier, and a lot more fun, somewhere a bit bigger.

And every so often, Crowley would swoop down to the village as the monster the locals were starting to call 'The Hairy One' and wreak a little havoc. Breath a little fire on some crops, shoot a few poisonous barbs at the goats – again, it really wasn't that challenging for an old pro such as he. And in the chaos that ensued, the seeds of discontent he'd planted would inevitably bear fruit, as a few of the malcontents would take the opportunity to sneak off and head towards the city.

If the rumor started to get around that The Hairy One was eating the disappeared, it really couldn't be helped. Crowley didn't particularly enjoy striking terror into the hearts of humans – it was usually counterproductive – but occasionally it was unavoidable, and somehow even weirdly flattering.

And so Crowley's little village, and the region surrounding it, gradually developed a new equilibrium. Hillsides once grazed by goats were taken over by vineyards, to supply the increasing demand for wine in the growing cities. Soon wine bars began to proliferate, and with them sloth and public drunkenness, and even better, the beginnings of _haute cuisine_

Music for the evenings in said bars, and games to be played – and wagered upon – followed the bars and the food. Crowley didn't spend all his time in France, playing the monster – he was a demon in far too much demand for that – but when he did, he soon could be assured of a good time while there. And sin was increasing like anything; as usual, Crowley ultimately just had to leave the humans to it and they took to it like ducks to water.

Perhaps he should have suspected it was all going too well to last, really.

* * *

Once upon a time, there was a fiancé who slew a terrible monster.

That's it. Not much of an introduction, is it? Not a warrior, not a sorcerer, not even a poor-but-clever peasant. A fiancé. Other than monster-slaying, his most remarkable achievement was apparently being engaged.

But that's really not at all true. The most remarkable thing about this fiancé was not that he was a fiancé. It was that he was an angel.

And he didn't exactly _slay_ the monster, truth be told.

The fiancée, Aziraphale was sure, was all a terrible misunderstanding. He'd simply been passing through an entirely typical village, a few dozen villages back, doing good deeds, as one does when one is an angel, and the next thing he knew, a young woman he'd healed from a mysterious illness which was not so much mysterious as entirely feigned was being pressed upon him, quite literally, as a suitable wife by her grateful family.

Aziraphale had become used to humans occasionally attempting to – how to put it – romance him. The thing was, he had also become used to those humans being, well, male. For whatever reason. He had developed some quite effective techniques for dealing with these fellows, depending upon their level of, er, insistence, but he had no idea how to handle a woman.

And the poor thing had seemed so delighted to be leaving her home village that he'd carefully put her off from actual marriage for the time being and taken her with him on his journey, hoping he could persuade her to settle down with a suitable young man in the next village.

But the next village had been too small for her liking, and the next had too many stray dogs, and Aziraphale had forgot the reason why the third village was unsuitable, and by the fourth village he was trying with all the inconsiderable subtlety and cunning he could muster to 'accidentally' leave the girl behind.

That was twenty villages ago, and still no luck, when he caught the scent of demonic activity on the air, at about the same time as he began to hear stories about a bizarre snake beast who terrorized the countryside.

With quickened step he headed for the epicenter of monstrous activity, fiancée in tow. He thought his old acquaintance might be able to help him out of his current sticky situation, after he finished mocking, that is. The serpent, after all, was more subtle (not to mention cunning) than any other beast of the field which He had made.

When they arrived at the village where reports of strange, bristly snakes were most frequent, and the traces of demonic activity most intense, however, the demon was nowhere to be found in town. Aziraphale found this quite odd. His counterpart was never one to eschew the creature comforts provided by civilization.

He was voicing this opinion to the girl about his 'old friend' on the way out of town to try another village when a somehow familiar voice chimed in from the path behind them. "D'you see any civilization around here, angel?"

Aziraphale turned around so fast he nearly wrenched his neck. "Crowley!" he called out. "So lovely to see you," he claimed. "But what are you doing all the way out here?"

"Nice to see you, too," Crowley managed. "Can't a man enjoy the peace and solitude of nature without raising suspicion?"

"Can you do anything without raising suspicions, dear boy?"

Just then, the young woman coughed, and Aziraphale startled.

"Oh yes, how could I have forgotten, how terribly rude, where are my manners-"

"Who's this?" Crowley asked, interest clearly piqued.

"My fiancée."

Now it was Crowley's turn to cough, rather longer and more violently than the girl had. "I'm sorry, I thought you just introduced a woman as your fiancée," he said when he had recovered himself.

Aziraphale glared at him. "Can't a man decide to settle down and get married without raising suspicion?" he asked.

"When the man is you, no. Excuse me," he addressed the young lady directly, "but I fear my old friend and I need to talk in private. Perhaps you'd like to pop back down into the village and find lodgings for the two of you for the night?" He gave her a gentle push back down the path.

"Be sure to get separate rooms!" Aziraphale called after her, cringing.

Once she was safely out of earshot, they turned to one another.

"So," Aziraphale began, tentatively.

"So."

"What's all this I hear about a deadly, fire-breath, poisonous-quilled, flesh-eating flying serpent?"

"What's this I hear about you marrying a human? A human _woman_?"

Aziraphale broke down. "You've got to help me! I can't seem to get rid of her." He explained how he had acquired a fiancée, and the failure of his previous attempts to foist her off.

"And you expect me to do something about your predicament _how_?" Crowley inquired.

"Well, if you really are this 'Peluda' the peasants all tell tales about, couldn't you, er, well-that is, they say that the serpent, um."

"Eats people?"

"Yes. But I don't want you to actually eat her, of course." Aziraphale shuddered, as did Crowley. "Just, well, maybe you could make it look like you ate her, and … send her somewhere?" He made a wavy little hand gesture. "I'm open to suggestions, if you have a better idea."

Crowley looked thoughtful. "It could work," he said finally, "but what's in it for me?"

"Beg pardon?"

"Demons don't do favors, angel. I'll solve your problem if you'll solve mine."

"What precisely is your problem, dear boy?"

"I need out of the monstrous serpent racket. My depredations have finally made the area urbanized enough to be livable, and I'd like to be able to enjoy the place, not terrorise it."

"Well then, why don't you just stop?" Aziraphale asked, puzzled.

"It doesn't work that way, angel. There has to be closure. I want the villagers to see that their Peluda is gone for good. I want you to slay me."

"_Slay you?_ As in, smite you with a flaming sword?"

"No, no, nothing quite so efficacious as a flaming sword. I'd like to avoid actual discorporation. I was thinking something a little more, say, like you stabbing me in my one weak spot, then a dramatic death scene from yours truly."

Aziraphale pondered for a minute. "Fine. But you vanish my fiancée first. Then I can kill you in revenge."

"It's a deal."

Aziraphale felt it worked out quite well, in the end. Crowley did a superlative job of the 'now you see her, now you don't' snatching of the poor girl, and while he felt faintly ridiculous, as always, waving a sword about, the villagers seemed to find his speech challenging the foul beast quite stirring. Crowley later said he should have picked a more dramatic weak spot for the actual blow than the tail, but it had been the only portion of Crowley in easy reach at the time.

* * *

And thus did an angel, faint-hearted at the prospect of being a fiancé, slay a Peluda who was only working part-time and wished to cut back further. And so the village was left in peace and considerably more prosperity after their departure. And the river? Well, I must confess that even after all that, it was still really just a stream.

-THE END-


End file.
